spill
Spill
by dennis mahagin
In my sweetest dream,
you are tattooing my trussed white ass
as flour-dusted pizza dough on a heart-shaped cutting board,
while your twin sister stands under the birthday pinata pony
lactating Milk Duds, Red Hots and Candy Corn–
the pony, lactating, that is, not your
sister, and then you softly whisper:
“Aren’t you forgetting something mister?”–
pushing the bolus button at the base of my testicles
like a toaster lever, ‘till that prodigious penis it
pops right up,
and Sis is able to toss her lime green hula hoop
as a horseshoe bulls eye smack dab on the pulsating
purple head, while clapping out the funky rhythm
for first verse of Mickey the cheerleader song.
I’ve told you already
about the eye patch and permanent
palm prints on my pasty forehead, that came from playing
Patty Cake and Rock-Paper-Scissors with a paranoid
schizophrenic Three Stooges fan in Washington Park;
I let you know about our previous life together
as Appalachian flower children riding astral planes
made from my magic carpet tongue sparks
flogging your flint rock nipples.
I’ve given you the password to my heart
in all its anagrammatic permutations; but you seem
to insist this is nothing but a start; so herewith, at
last comes the story of my first puppy–
an Airedale named Chipper
who could jump
five feet into the air
to kiss my cheek, and then spin
and spin, like Brian Boitano,
all the way back down
to the ground.
This takes a couple of reads. The flow can be stuttering at times, a bit confusing. Yet. . . It is a dream, I suppose.
That being said, I loved it. Strong and refreshing imagery and some genuinely funny moments, like:
“I’ve told you already
about the eye patch and permanent
palm prints on my pasty forehead, that came from playing
Patty Cake and Rock-Paper-Scissors with a paranoid
schizophrenic Three Stooges fan in Washington Park”
distracting comma aside, images like this make for an interesting piece. Could use a rewrite to make it truly memorable.
Thanks for the entertaining read.
Uh, i would say in a beautiful ramble poem such as this the stuttering comma breaks are like a quick breath in cathartic jazz solo. The comma breaks, though perhaps not grammatically ‘law-abiding’, are for the reader’s benefit in breaking up a continuous stream of consciousness so it may be that more digestable for the famished cook who partakes of his own dishes. I have that problem too where i just want to keep going with the thought and the interconnectedness and not stop like making love and letting it all just mesh and mesh and then it’s like all too passionate and you gotta give your lover a little slap on the ass just to say HEY i’m here remember me. Maybe that’s all wrong. Who knows?
I loved the imagination and words and the descriptions here. thx for sharing.
there’s no such thing as love too passionate to make. that probably makes me sound sex crazed, but i firmly believe you can make the proverbial love to anything.
i liked reading this multiple times. poetry is consciousnesses souvenir. if you’re thinking in sentence breaks, fragments, runons or other classically void grammer misfits, it needs to be translated to the paper. i find ‘flow’ very personal ‘koos of this.
of course, the appalachian flower children stanza struck a very pleased-to-be-plucked three chord in my lifelong song. how long has this song been playing? ’22 years long’.
and i mean, it needs to get on the paper in order to get the same points across to others that you got across to yourself. when naturally spilled, everything counts.